


What If This Storm Ends?

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Mentions of Character Death, dogs and people that like dogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam moves to a new town to get away from his memories, and meets a man trapped in his own past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! This is my first Mooseley fic (for those of you that only read my stuff for Crobby and are prone to panic, don't worry, I'm not abandoning anything; I just needed to start working on this).

The moving van pulled out of the drive with a low groan and sputtered off down the street, leaving the few remaining boxes stacked on the lawn. Sam sighed and nudged the one marked "Kitchen Misc and Socks" with a toe, then bent to heft it and its companions, making his way across his newly-acquired yard. The house itself was small, new, typical cookie-cutter style like most of the block, impersonal and waiting to be made into a home.

He nudged the door open with his hip, balancing the boxes as he stepped into the hall. His echoing footsteps toward the living room made the place feel even emptier, but at least it wasn't the apartment, where every corner of every room hit him with the full weight of his own memories, where he woke up every morning expecting the incoherent mumble of Gabriel protesting the alarm. He set the boxes down and stood, brow furrowing as he realized that he hadn't heard the familiar yelp of his only companion in a while. 

"Thor?" He called out, clapping his hands and waiting for the black and white blur of a dog to come pelting into the room. When he was greeted by more silence, he groaned and headed out.

He stepped out into the yard, cursing himself for leaving the sliding door open, and strained his ears for signs of his dog's presence. There- in the distance he could hear the excited, high-speed yap of the little Jack Russell, punctuated by the deep bark of what sounded like a much, much bigger dog. Sam cursed again and took off after the noise, following it across the street and toward- yep, of course Thor would pick the one giant, old-money house left in the neighborhood, the one draped in ivy and actual freaking gargoyles and surrounded by an iron-wrought fence. The terrier was nothing if not a reflection of his previous owner.

Sam followed the fence along until he caught sight of the two dogs: Thor had managed to wriggle between the bars of the fence and was currently running crazy, frantic circles around the most massive canine he'd ever seen. The other dog- a grey-furred, thickly-muscled beast- seemed more confused than enraged, only barking when Thor darted in to nip excitedly at its ankles. At the sudden appearance of a human, both dogs looked up, Thor yipping in delight and the strange dog shifting from paw to paw.

"Dammit, Thor!" Sam clapped insistently, praying that the owner of the house wasn't home. The terrier gave his new "friend" one last nip before squeezing through the fence and leaping into Sam's arms, squirming and licking his face. 

"Well," came a rough, accented voice, "I'm certain there should be a punchline here somewhere, but I can't seem to think of it."

Sam whipped around to see a dark-haired man standing in the doorway of the mansion, arms crossed and expression skeptical. He stepped down into the grass, and the giant dog came trotting over to loom next to him- damn that was a big animal, although the guy wasn't especially tall either. Sam tried to apologize. 

"Sorry, he didn't mean any-" He blinked. "Punchline? What do you mean?"

The man gestured at the two of them. "Big man with a little dog- the joke seems fairly obvious." He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. 

Sam couldn't help it; he bristled angrily, automatically defensive. "Yeah, well, same could probably be said of a little man with a big dog- compensating?"

The grin gave way to a dirty leer. "Trust me, moose, I've no need to compensate."

"Right," Sam snorted, ignoring the blush he felt rising. "And the great big serial killer house really helps convey that message."

The amused, lecherous expression dropped away completely at that, and the man glowered venomously as he snapped back, "Tell your girlfriend to keep that yappy little mutt in her purse where it belongs," before stepping into his house and slamming the door, cutting off any of Sam's possible responses- that it wasn't his girlfriend's dog, that the guy didn't know what he was talking about and who the hell did he think he was?

He carried Thor back to the house, muttering gentle admonitions at the dog and various aspersions at the other man. Once safely inside, he closed all the doors (and windows, for good measure) before relenting and setting Thor down so the terrier could explore their new home. He headed into the kitchen, glancing over the takeout menus the real estate agent had brought him, and decided he really wasn't hungry. Instead he pulled out his phone and called his brother, unsurprised when it wasn't Dean who answered.

"Hello, Sam."

"Hi, Cas," Sam leaned against the counter and watched Thor sniff warily at the new coffee table. "How're things?" 

"Things are fine. How was the move?" 

Sam shrugged even though there was no one to see it. "Went pretty smooth. I-" There was a loud crash over the phone, followed by a muffled but creative string of curses. Castiel sighed into the receiver. 

"Your brother has trapped himself under a bookshelf. Please excuse me."

Sam snorted a laugh, picturing it all too clearly. "Sure thing, Cas, go rescue him. And then let me talk to him."

There was some clattering, a few more swears, and a loud thud, and then Dean's voice came across the speaker. "Hey Sam, how're the new digs?"

"They're good." Sam lazily began pulling items from a box and placing them at random into the kitchen cabinets. "I mean, pretty empty and, you know, kind of weird at the moment, but I'm glad I did it."

"Me too," Dean's voice was genuine and awkwardly concerned. "I mean, it sucks that you're kind of far away now, and I'm sorry we weren't there to help you move. But I think it's a good idea... it's been, what, nearly two years? I think this will help you. Cas thinks so too."

Making a vague noise of agreement, Sam pulled out Thor's food bowl and set it down, prompting an explosion of excited movement in the living room. Thor came skittering into the kitchen, momentarily thrown by the linoleum, and then stuck his nose into the bowl. When he found it empty, he looked up at his owner accusingly. Sam chuckled weakly and began digging around for the dog food. 

Cas' voice cut in suddenly, not quite up against the speaker, like he was off to the side. "Dean, you have a cut on your forehead."

Dean grunted and muttered something about getting clocked with one of the damned bookends. Sam rolled his eyes and spoke loud enough that Cas would hear. "Don't worry, Cas, it's a non-vital area for him."

"Hey, fuck off," Dean grumbled at him, then hissed, presumably as Cas did something medical and painful to the cut. 

They had an interesting sort of... Sam would use the word "relationship", but that didn't seem to cover it. Five years ago, Dean hadn't been doing so well- he'd taken their dad's death pretty hard, started drinking more and more and spiraling further and further down until one night he managed to drive his car off the road and into a guy out for a jog. Pinned him to a tree, crushed a leg and most of his ribs. It could have been the event that ended Dean for good; he'd have survived prison, maybe, but it would have broken him. He was saved, bizarrely, by Castiel, the man he'd almost killed: when he woke up in the hospital he found his medical bills and legal ramifications taken care of. Cas' only conditions had been that Dean go into AA, and that he help out at the veterinary clinic Cas worked at while Cas was recuperating. Of course, it hadn't ended up being as simple as that; the longer Dean worked with Cas the closer they got, and now they had a weirdly intimate, codependent but allegedly nonsexual arrangement that involved living together and having deep, complex conversations purely via eye contact.

The cut apparently taken care of, Dean brought his attention back to the conversation. "So, met any neighbors yet? Got the welcome wagon?"

"Yeah, not exactly." Sam snorted and began relaying his encounter with the cranky asshole across the road, shifting the phone to his left hand while he scooped dry kibble into Thor's bowl with the right. True to form, Dean laughed at the story.

"Wow, Sam, good for you- just moved in and already flirting with the mysterious rich neighbor!"

"I did not-" Sam sputtered indignantly, "I didn't _flirt_ , did you not hear me say what a dick the guy was?"

"Uh huh," Dean said casually. "And I'm guessing he was on the short side, at least five years older than you, extra snarky... maybe a little bit of scruff? Plus he already has a dog."

"I- wha-"

"You have a type, Sam, always have." He sounded pleased with himself, teasing his little brother like always. It was a relief; he'd been treating Sam so carefully for the last two years that even his obnoxious jibes were welcome. 

"You're ridiculous," Sam said, without much effort. He stacked a few cans of tuna and glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was later than he'd thought, and he stretched and wandered cautiously toward his new, unused bedroom. "Hey, so, I'm gonna go." 

"Yeah, sure man, get settled in," Dean said agreeably. In the background, Cas called out a goodbye to Sam and informed Dean that he'd fixed the shelf.

Sam grinned to himself and said his own goodbyes, then hung up and stood in the doorway of the bedroom, staring down at his empty, waiting mattress for a full minute before turning and heading into the living room, where he collapsed onto the sofa. A few minutes later Thor came trotting out of the kitchen and climbed up onto his chest, snuffling quietly. Eventually the sound lulled Sam to sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Sam spent the next morning half-assedly unpacking and arranging his belongings, sipping at a mug of sludgy, crappy coffee (he never was very good at working the coffee maker). When Thor woke up and came skittering into the room with a demanding bark, he set aside his mug and got the candy-striped leash from a drawer (prompting the usual "dance of excitement"). 

They made their way down the block, Sam enjoying the brisk air and the growing dawn colors, Thor enjoying the new sights and smells. They were halfway back when he glanced across the street and caught sight of the other early risers there. He rolled his eyes. Of course, the only other person out walking a dog at that moment would have to be that same smug asshole from yesterday. The man, apparently feeling eyes on him, turned his head and spotted Sam. It was hard to tell, but he seemed to scoff before averting his gaze.

It appeared they were both determined to ignore each other's existence, but their dogs were of a different mindset. Thor began tugging frantically at his lead, barking his head off as he tried to drag Sam along with him toward his new friend. The other dog, clearly having similar thoughts, actually did drag his owner along, hauling the dark-haired man across the street despite his feeble protests of "Esca! No! Sit! Bad- Esca, stay!"

Sam hid a grin behind his free hand, even as the two canines circled each other, performing the customary butt-sniff (which took some effort on Thor's part; Esca's rear was nearly three times the terrier's height above) and managing to tangle both humans' legs in their leashes. A particularly sharp tug from the larger dog sent Sam stumbling forward to bump into the other man, who tried to step back immediately only to trip over Thor and get even more ensnared. 

It took some maneuvering, but eventually they freed themselves (with much cursing and avoidance of eye contact) and stood there facing each other. The man looked like he was about to make a comment, but instead he turned and began walking down the sidewalk, snapping a sharp word in some other language that had Esca following, reluctant but obedient. 

Sam waited a beat, watching the man's retreating back, and glanced down to see Thor looking up at him pleadingly. He sighed and jogged after the guy. It didn't take much effort to catch up (his long legs meant that it only took him one stride for every two the dark-haired man took). 

He cleared his throat, getting a raised brow from his neighbor. "Esca- that's a reference to that Rosemary Sutcliff novel, right? _The Eagle of the Ninth_?"

The man blinked, looking surprised and not a little wary. "Yes..."

Sam couldn't help the pleased grin that hitched the corner of his mouth, dimpling his cheek. "'The Centurion's hound', I remember. Fitting- he's an Irish wolfhound, isn't he?"

The wary look hadn't left, but the man shook his head and patted his dog, correcting the guess with a neutral, "Scottish deerhound."

Sam hummed, acknowledging, and after a quick breath to psyche himself up, stuck out his hand. "I'm Sam. Sam Winchester."

Instead of shaking it, like a normal human being, the guy stopped suddenly, looked him up and down, and said in a kind of resigned tone, "Yes, you would be, wouldn't you?"

Before Sam could comment on that, the smaller man turned and walked back to the other side of the street, vanishing into the darkness of his house once again.

Sam huffed and shook his head, bemused. Thor, who had apparently decided that since his friend was gone he might as well go back inside and eat as much food as possible.

Once his dog was nose-down in his food once more, Sam set about unpacking a few more boxes, loading books onto a shelf and filling the closet with clothing wrinkled from the move. He piled the empty, flattened boxes in one corner of the living room, planning to recycle them once he had bins. He was putting away his socks, mindlessly rolling them and stuffing them into a drawer, when he glanced down and saw a single unpaired stray: a neon green sock with tiny doughnuts, candies and sundaes embroidered on it. 

Sam sat there, holding the sock in one palm and trying to figure out whether he was shaking from stifled sobs or laughter at the absurdity of it, the memory of Gabriel's eternal refusal to wear matching socks, his childish glee whenever he found a particularly lurid pair. Even in the hospital, his mismatched feet sticking out from under his paper gown, his last insistence of color in that blank place. Sam clutched the sock tightly, paralyzed and lost.

A knock at the door saved him, startling him enough that he only had time to lay the sock on the bed before heading out to answer.

It turned out to be a middle-aged woman with dark hair and a sharp gaze, her sheriff's badge glinting on her chest as she turned to face him. She tipped her hat back to meet his eyes, nodding a greeting. "Morning. I'm Jody Mills, sheriff around here. Figured I'd come by and introduce myself, seeing as you're new to the area."

Sam blinked and held out a hand to shake. "Uh, hi, yeah. I'm Sam, Sam Winchester."

Her grip was firm and confident, and he held her stare until she seemed satisfied and stepped back. "You livin' here alone?" She asked, "Or is there a Mrs. Winchester?"

He cleared his throat. "No, I uh, it's just me and my dog." He didn't offer any further explanation, uncertain as to how welcome his preferences would be. 

She nodded again, shifting her hands to her hips and glancing around the house. "You met the neighbors yet?"

He shrugged. "Not really- just one guy, so far, and I don't think we got off to the best start."

"Oh? Who?"

Sam pointed toward the grand, dark shape of the mansion. "The big house across the street; I didn't get his name."

She looked startled, then shook her head as if amused. "Yeah, that's Crowley. He's uh... he's not exactly Mister Popularity around here. To be honest, I'd avoid him if I were you- he attracts trouble like nothing else."

He raised a brow but nodded. "Well, I don't think there's much likelihood of us bonding or anything, but thanks for the advice."

She shifted her weight and reached up to pull her sunglasses down from the brim of her hat and slide them onto her face. "I heard you're some kinda author, right? You plannin' on writing something new?"

Slightly self-conscious now, as he always got when people brought up his career, he bit his lip and shrugged again. "Yeah, I write crime novels, thrillers, that kind of thing. Not sure what I'm gonna work on next."

The sheriff tilted her head contemplatively, humming a sound of acknowledgement, and glanced down the street. "Well, I'll let you get to settling in. I imagine the baked good brigade will be along shortly; housewives are gonna eat you up, no doubt." She tapped her hat again, adding, "You let me know if you have any problems."

He waved as she pulled away in her Chevy Tahoe, then headed back inside. He hadn't been in there for more than a minute before the doorbell rang. This time it was a pair of women, one older, the other probably about sixteen. The older woman, her ash blonde hair done up in perfect curls, beamed and held out a bowl of some kind of jello marshmallow fluff. 

"Morning, neighbor!" She said cheerfully. "We thought we'd pop over and welcome you with a nice bowl of homemade ambrosia."

"Oh," Sam glanced down at the mass in the bowl, taking it gingerly (it jiggled when he shifted it). "Thank you! That's very- thank you."

She smiled again, continuing. "I'm Eve, and this is my daughter Lilith." The girl, whose hair was a lighter blonde than her mother's, made a vague greeting sound without looking up from her phone. "We're two houses down from you on the right," Eve added, undaunted. "The yellow one with the tulips out front."

Sam nodded and smiled, even though he hadn't really been examining his neighbors' gardens yet. "I'm Sam," he replied, adding, "And this is Thor," when the terrier came trotting over to see what the fuss was about.

"Ohhh," Eve cooed, bending down to peer at the dog, "Isn't he just a sweetheart?"

Thor backed away from her, barking and avoiding the hand she extended to pet him. That was unusual; he generally loved meeting new people. "Uh, he's kind of nervous around strangers," Sam lied, shooing Thor into the living room. 

"Poor thing," Eve said, standing back up. "Well, we've got to get back; Lilith's got ballet to get to. But you come by any time you like," she smiled at him again, not bothering to disguise the way her eyes travelled up and down his chest and arms. "Any time at all."

"Uh huh," Sam forced a smile and stepped back with the bowl. "Thanks very much."

"Not at all!" Still beaming, she led her daughter away.

He set the bowl of ambrosia in the fridge and stared at it dubiously. He really wasn't one for sweets- that had been Gabriel's thing more than his- and he was more likely to go for a muffin or coffee cake than some froofy sugary concoction. Deciding to bypass it for the time being, he poured himself a bowl of cereal and ate it dry, crunching as he set the clock on the microwave. He hadn't even finished his meal before the doorbell rang yet again, and he rolled his eyes and sighed as he went to see who it was. 

The girl that was standing on his front step let out a strangled shriek when she saw him, her eyes going wide as she clutched a box of doughnuts to her chest.

"Uh, hi," Sam said cautiously.

"Oh my god," she said breathlessly. "Oh my god, it's true. It's really you. Oh my god."

"...Sorry?" He asked, staring in bewilderment at what he assumed was another neighbor (apparently his street was well-stocked in weird and slightly intense people). 

"Sam Wesson!" She yelped, practically bouncing in excitement. "You're _the_ Sam Wesson, author of the 'Jared Jensen' series!"

"Oh," he blinked in surprise at being recognized. "Uh, yeah..."

She let out a squeal of delight that could have shattered glass. "I can't believe you live on my street! This is the greatest thing that's ever happened here!"

"Okay," he allowed uneasily. 

"I'm Becky," she added, thrusting the box toward him. "And I am literally your biggest fan, like ever. You're amazing."

"Well, um, thank you," Sam said, fighting the urge to squirm away from her. He took the doughnuts carefully and made sure that their fingers did not brush, despite what was a fairly obvious attempt to do so on her part. He coughed and stepped back. "I've got to, ah, get back to unpacking..."

"Right!" She grinned and did another little bounce of excitement. "Are you writing a new book? Is it gonna come out soon? I know you were taking a break from writing; is it because of your partner?"

"Becky," he said firmly, trying not to snap at her, "I need to get back to work. It was nice meeting you."

"You too! I'm really, really happy to have you here!" She gave him a quick wave and hopped down the step, and he closed the door quickly, already weary.

He dropped the doughnuts onto the counter and slumped against the fridge, sighing heavily. Thor came in and whined at him, and he patted the dog gently, reassuring him that everything was fine.

The doorbell rang.

Sam groaned in protest as he stood up, slowly, and forced himself toward the door. It was barely noon and he was already done dealing with people for the day. He opened the door like a man condemned, ready to force his way through another conversation. But there was no one there, and a quick glance around told him there was no one else on the street either. He squinted in confusion and took a step out, only to bump into something with his foot. 

There on his front step was a woven basket, tastefully draped in a burgundy silk napkin. When he picked it up cautiously and lifted the cloth away, he found it was full of perfect, still-warm muffins. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
Sam brought the basket in, mouth watering embarrassingly, and set it down on the kitchen counter, well away from the jaws of his hyperactively bouncing terrier. Two thorough checks revealed no note (but did reveal that the basket contained blueberry, raspberry, double chocolate chip and some kind of cinnamon crumble thing that looked amazing). Had he still been in the old apartment, he'd have worried that they were laced with something, but out in the suburbs he felt fairly certain that he could eat free muffins in safety. In all probability, they were from some neighbor that was too shy to greet him or thought he took too long to answer the door.  
He hovered over the basket for a moment, trying to decide which treat to sample first, and settled on the raspberry one. He settled at the table with another mug of coffee and took a bite of the muffin, eyelids fluttering in delight when he discovered that the center was filled with molten raspberry jam. Whoever had made these was now his favorite neighbor.  
He finished off the treat, licking his fingertips afterward for traces of jam, and decided it was time to go into town and pick up some groceries. Thor would be relatively safe alone in the house for a while, so he grabbed his keys and drove off with a few reusable bags in the seat next to him.   
Half an hour later, as Sam perused the produce aisle, a middle-aged woman approached him with a cheery smile and a basket on one arm. She came to a stop next to him, plucking avocados from the shelf one by one and methodically examining them as she greeted him with a, "You must be the new face in town. Sheriff said you were the tall, handsome type."  
Sam chuckled nervously, automatically brushing his hair away from his face. "Uh, hi. I'm Sam."  
"Marcy," she beamed up at him and places two avocados into her basket before moving on to the onions. "I live over on Emerson Street."  
He nodded and smiled in return, not familiar enough with the neighborhood to know about the street she was talking about. "I'm on, uh, Ashland Road."  
"Oh, I know that house; it's been on the market for years!" She said it lightly, with a wave of her hand, but pursed her lips a moment later, like she'd discovered an unpleasant taste in her mouth.  
"What?" Sam paused, a head of lettuce in one hand. "What is it?"  
"It's- well," she shook her head. "I know I shouldn't gossip, but... you live so close to him, I suppose it would be better to warn you now anyway. You see, there's this man that lives across the street from you- in that great big eyesore of a house, I'm sure you've seen it- and he's really not the kind of person you want to associate with." She leaned in toward him to add in a conspiratorial whisper, "He was suspected of murder a few years ago. He got out of it- probably mob connections- but _everyone_ knows he did it."  
"Really," he said, without much inflection. It seemed a bit early to be immersing himself in the local rumor mill; he hadn't even finished unpacking.   
"Oh, yes, it was all anyone could talk about for months. It was his boyfriend, you know. Or, well, his ex, I think. They'd had a big fight the night before, and then the next day, boom, the man turned up dead." She shook her head and tsked. "Dramatic, but then I suppose that's just the way they are."  
Sam resisted the urge to shove her away from himself, instead turning toward the fruit section and grabbing a bunch of bananas with more force than necessary. "I have to go," he announced, managing to keep his voice above a growl.   
Marcy blinked up at him, looking politely surprised. "Oh. Yes, of course, I don't want to hold you up- I'm sure I'll see you around!"  
"Uh huh." He made his way to the front, paid for his items and got out of the store.   
~  
The sight of Thor greeting him with boundless enthusiasm and vertical leaps at the door was enough to dispel Sam's mood, and he laughed and allowed himself to be lovingly mauled. He refilled the dog's bowls and set about making himself some dinner- salad and Hamburger Helper. He wasn't much of a cook; he'd never really needed to be.   
The phone rang while he was washing dishes, and he cursed and quickly dried his hands before answering.  
"Hey Sammy," Dean's voice was warm and welcome after the day Sam had had. "So how's day two in Townsville?"  
"Ehh." Sam dried a plate and put it away. "Kind of up and down. Met some of the neighbors."  
"Oh yeah?"  
"Yep; I've got a whole pile of desserts to prove it."  
"Ooh, good neighbors then." Dean was grinning; he could tell.   
Sam grimaced, thinking of Eve and her eager, discomforting gaze. "Uhh..." His own eyes caught sight of the basket on his counter, and he half-smiled involuntarily. "Yeah, some of them I guess." He picked up the cinnamon one, bit into it and grinned. "Oh- so get this- the douchey neighbor with the dog, from yesterday? Turns out he's like, the town pariah."   
"Really?"   
"I mean, I don't know how much actual truth there is to it, but apparently he was suspected of murder. Even the sheriff warned me away from him."  
"A bad boy, nice!" Dean chuckled, and in the background Sam heard Cas ask what was so funny. "Sam's new neighbor-crush is a murderer!"   
Cas made a sort of confused sound of acknowledgement and Dean laughed again. Sam snorted and brushed crumbs from his chin. "How've you guys been?"  
"Good," Dean replied. "Been doing some renovations around the place; Cas is trying his hand at carpentry. He carved a headboard the other day."  
"Oh?"  
"It looks awesome. He's really good."  
"Dean, please stop exaggerating to your brother." Sam could practically hear the blush in Castiel's voice.   
Dean ignored the other man and continued, "You should ask him to do some furniture for you. Give the new place some flair."  
Sam rolled his eyes. "How is it that I'm the one that bought a new house but you're the one that's in full-on nesting mode?"  
"Whatever, man, I'll just make him build you some chairs for Christmas."  
"Dean, do not promise furniture to people," Cas scolded faintly. "I'm not good enough yet, and I don't know if I even have enough lumber to finish the bedframe."  
Dean made a dismissive sound. "Don't even try it, Cas, you're already designing the chairs and you know it."  
There was a faint scuffling sound, and Dean sputtered like he was getting his hair mussed or dodging a thrown object. Sam laughed when Dean's voice sounded distantly, calling out a quick, "Gotta go, Sam, we'll try to visit soon!"  
"Yeah, see you." Sam hung up and shook his head, leaning against the counter and finishing the muffin in his hand before strolling back into the living room, Thor on his heels. It was dark outside already, a few dried leaves zipping past the window in the cold breeze, and Sam saw two figures making their way down the sidewalk across the street- Crowley and Esca, out for a late walk. Sam briefly considered getting Thor's leash and his coat, jogging out there and joining the other man just for the hell of it, but the terrier had already curled up in his bed next to the couch, so he locked the door, changed into a t-shirt and sleep pants, and settled onto the sofa once more.

 

~

Gosh that took a while, sorry guys! The next chapter will probably be up much sooner.


	4. Chapter 4

  
  
The knock at his door was almost expected when it came at around six in the morning, and Sam snorted awake, sending Thor yelping to the floor. He rubbed his eyes and staggered to answer it, recognizing the figure standing on his front step.   
"Sheriff?" Sam blinked blearily, using one foot to keep Thor at bay.  
She tipped her hat back with one finger. "Morning. Sorry to bother you this early, but... one of your neighbors got attacked last night."  
"What?" He stared at her in alarm. "Who?"  
She raised a brow. "Take a guess."  
Sam's eyes went to the last spot he'd seen anyone last night- the sidewalk where Crowley and Esca had been walking. "Crowley?"  
"Bingo." She glanced over her shoulder at the big house across the street. "Someone went after him when he was out walkin' his dog. Shot the dog, beat Crowley with a tire iron and got away with his wallet."  
"Jesus!" Sam exclaimed. "Are- how bad is it?"  
She shook her head. "Dog's at the vet, still being operated on. Crowley's in the hospital with some broken bones."  
Sam nodded, honestly relieved to hear that neither of them had been killed. Jody shifted and cocked her head. "So he's not talking- he doesn't care much for us at the station, not that I blame him. But I guarantee he knows who it was and why they did it; it sure as hell wasn't an ordinary mugging." She sighed. "But hey, I'm just the humble sheriff, trying to do my job, so tell me- you seen any suspicious activity?"  
He squinted thoughtfully. "Not really? I mean, I'm new so I'm not really sure what counts as suspicious. I'm probably not the guy to ask..." He added lamely.  
She half-smiled ruefully. "Yeah, to be honest I don't expect to get too far on this one. I actually came by to ask you a favor."  
"Oh?"  
The sheriff pinched the bridge of her nose, as if fighting a headache. "He's being released from the hospital this afternoon, but he's still beat to hell and I don't trust him not to fall down the stairs and break his neck. I need someone to keep an eye on him, and well... you're pretty much the only one nearby that doesn't seem to hate his guts. Not yet, anyhow."  
"Oh, uh," Sam considered. "Keep an eye on him like...?"  
She shrugged. "Go over there once a day, make sure he eats something and that the muggers haven't killed the idiot and left him to rot and stink up the place. I'd do it myself but I got enough on my plate without babysitting the cranky bastard."  
"I, uh- yeah, that's fine," Sam heard himself say. "I'm just screwing around with writer's block right now anyway."  
"You'e a lifesaver," she patted him on the shoulder gratefully. "Try not to strangle the ornery sumbitch."  
  
~  
  
Sam waited until he saw the cab- honestly, he'd almost expected a limo- pull up to the stately mansion across the road. He left a puzzled-looking Thor behind and jogged across the street just in time to see Crowley stumble on the steps. He darted forward to catch the smaller man's arm, holding him up. Crowley stared in surprise up at him, then glowered at his own feet.   
"Sheriff sent you then, moose?" His voice was hoarser than usual, barely a croak, and Sam didn't miss the way he leaned slightly into the support. "I don't need a bloody nanny."  
"Well, I'm not a nanny. I'm your neighbor." Sam plucked the keys from Crowley's shaking hand and unlocked the front door. "Now c'mon. In the house."  
He was immediately struck by how elegant the place was. It was understated, not nearly as ostentatious as he would have imagined. The walls and floors were dark wood, with fine carpets here and there and one or two oil paintings along the walls. Sam hauled his neighbor into what was presumably the living room, carefully settling Crowley onto the huge, plush sofa. He glanced around, admiring the red and silver curtains, the small sculptures on the mantlepiece. It was all very tasteful, even lovely, but it was also clearly furnished with the dog in mind- no breakable things too close to the floor, all the furniture big enough to accommodate a giant hound.   
He turned back to examine his "patient". Crowley was resting huffily against the cushions, clearly trying to maintain an air of dignity, which was difficult considering his face looked like raw hamburger. Sam winced in sympathy at the sight of the stitches bracketing both cheeks.   
"How many bones did you break?" He asked, noting the tender way Crowley held his left side.   
The older man shrugged, then clearly regretted the movement. "Two ribs, a couple fingers, fractured radius... he waved his heavily-bound right arm vaguely, setlled back down. "Nothing serious."  
Sam snorted. "Uh, I'd call that pretty serious." He stuck his hands into his pockets. "You got any relatives I should call? Or did the hospital do that already?"  
Crowley fixed him with a look that made him feel about two inches tall. "You think I'd be here getting interrogated by you if I had any relatives worth calling?"  
Sam didn't answer that, quickly changing the subject to, "So, are you hungry or..."  
"Oh joy, he cooks, too," Crowley announced to the ceiling, rolling onto his back. "How on earth is it you've not been made some lucky dame's blushing housewife, moose?"  
"Actually, I can't cook," Sam replied, rather than open the can of worms in that question. "I was gonna offer to order something. Pizza?"  
He expected to get a derisive response and demands of, who knew what, caviar or something. Instead, Crowley piped up from behind the hand he was using to rub at his temples, "Extra cheese, black olives and barbeque sauce."  
Sam had to stifle a snort of startled amusement. "Seriously?"  
One baleful eye peered up at him from between splinted fingers. "No mushrooms. Money's in my w- er, the bureau next to the door," he corrected himself, remembering that his wallet was gone.  
Still grinning a little, Sam looked up the nearest pizza place on his phone and dialed from the hallway, admiring what looked like an original Degas painting hanging above the bureau. Soon, with a large, half cheese and olive, half veggie lover's (hold the mushrooms) pizza and a side of barbeque sauce on the way, he ducked back into the living room.   
Crowley had turned on the massive television to some nature program about hyenas, and he was struggling to open a small orange bottle of pills with his clumsy, wrapped fingers. He was muttering under his breath in what might have been Gaelic. Wordlessly, Sam took the bottle and popped it open, reading the label for the dosage before tipping two of the painkillers into Crowley's palm.  
"I'll get you some water-"  
"Don't bother." The dark-haired man knocked the pills back dry, throat working around them, and Sam caught himself mirroring the gulp.   
"Uh, you-" He stammered, turning his gaze back to the bottle. "It says to take them with water. And not on an empty stomach."  
"So hope the pizza gets here soon." Crowley curled up on his side and placed a pillow over his face, obviously attempting to ignore his unwelcome guest.  
Sam shook his head and sat (very carefully) on the other end of the couch, watching the program and learning about spotted hyena matriarchies until the doorbell rang.   
The pizza delivery guy looked alarmed when Sam answered the door, clearly expecting the much shorter owner of the house and not the friendly giant that told him to keep the change. The man left still looking confused and Sam carried the pizza into the kitchen. It was just as impressive as the rest of the house, with marble countertops and state of the art appliances- clearly Crowley took cooking seriously, which made his acceptance of pizza all the more amusing. Sam pulled out two plates and piled them each with slices of pizza, filled two glasses with water, and carried it all out to the other room.   
"Uh, hey." He cautiously set the plates onto the coffee table and touched Crowley's foot. The smaller man made a low, disgruntled sound and batted the pillow away from his face, blinking owlishly.  
"Oh, god," he grumbled. "You're still here; I thought that was just a pain-induced hallucination."  
"Nope, sorry." Sam pushed a dish toward him and sat down with his pizza. He bit into it, keeping his eyes on the television, and saw Crowley slowly take a bite of his own. He couldn't help grinning a little at that, hiding it with another mouthful of cheese and bread when the shorter man shot a baleful glance his way.  
After dinner, Sam gathered up the dishes and brought them to the sink, hesitating as he looked around for a dishwasher.   
"Leave them," Crowley called from the living room. "I'll get to them eventually; don't bother."  
Shrugging, Sam obeyed, carefully piling the plates and cups into the sink and turning to see the injured man had managed to haul himself upright again and was slowly, painstakingly pulling himself along, using the back of the couch for support.   
"Uh," Sam took a half-step forward, reaching out to offer help, but Crowley waved him away with an irritable sound.   
"I'm perfectly capable of getting about in my own house, bigfoot." He shifted his weight to lean against the doorway that lead to a darkened staircase, no doubt heading towards an upstairs bedroom. "All I want now is to have a shower and pass out while the painkillers are still working."  
"Right." Sam glanced at the door, then the stairs, and said, haltingly, "Do you- uh. Will you be okay, then, getting- doing that on your own?"  
Crowley arched a brow, mouth twisting into a smirk. "Why, were you planning to come help me in the shower? Move fast, don't you?"  
Sam flushed despite his attempts otherwise, and he covered the action by rolling his eyes and backing toward the door. "Okay, I'm gonna go. You do whatever, remember to lock the door, try not to die before I come back tomorrow."  
"Oh, lord, you're coming back tomorrow? What, is the sheriff blackmailing you? Are you expecting payment? I shouldn't think you successful writer types needed side jobs anymore." Crowley scoffed as he shuffled along the wall.  
Sam sighed and shook his head, walking out and shutting the door behind himself without answering. He crossed the lawn, closing the gate behind him, and got across the street before wondering how Crowley had known he was a writer.  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it's been a while, and while I'd like to say the next update will be soon... I'm heading off into the Peruvian rainforest for two months soon and wifi will be hard to come by. So this story is definitely not abandoned– don't go thinking that!– but it will be some time between the next update. Please do keep reviewing, commenting, questioning, all that!  
> Also, warnings! Mentions of animal death and sadness in this chapter! (Sorry to leave you with that but that's how the chapter panned out.)

  
  
He waited a while the next day, showering, eating and puttering around the house, unpacking here and there, before heading back over across the street. When he knocked, there was no answer, so he tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. He opened the door slowly and stepped inside, calling out the owner's name and hearing his own voice echo into the house. From deep inside the dark halls there came a crash, the sound of something heavy being overturned, and the noise jolted him into movement. With growing apprehension, Sam followed the crash down the hall toward the only lit room in the house. He glanced around as he walked, looking for something that could be used as a weapon against the invaders that had presumably come to finish Crowley off.

  
    The room turned out to be a library, a massive thing straight out of Beauty & the Beast, with actual second-floor shelves that need ladders to be reached. One wall was lined with fossils and pre-Columbian figurines, another with Degas watercolors. At the center of the room, a huge oak desk had been turned onto its side, still-lit lamp laying on the floor and throwing shadows across scattered papers. Sitting next to the desk, leaning against the toppled chair, was Crowley. He didn't appear to be under attack, just sitting there with his head lowered and a phone in his hand.

  
    Sam breathed a sigh of relief and crouched down, trying to get a look at Crowley's face. "Hey. Crowley? You okay?"

  
    The dark-haired man didn't look up or acknowledge him, so Sam carefully reached out and eased the phone from his grip, checking the screen. The last ended call was from a number labelled 'Animal Hospital'. He curled a fist around the phone, reaching out with his other hand to gently touch Crowley's shoulder. When there was still no response, he slid his arm around the silent man's waist and stood, lifting him with ease but mindful of his injuries. "C'mon."

  
    He brought them, together, down the hall and back into the living room, lowering himself and Crowley onto the couch. He set the phone down on the coffee table and turned back to his neighbor. "Crowley?" When he got nothing, he stood and picked the phone back up. "I'm gonna go into the kitchen and make you some– I don't know, tea? I'm guessing you have tea. I'll be back, okay?"

  
    He stepped into the kitchen and pressed the call button on Crowley's phone (thankfully it was still unlocked), cradling it against his shoulder as he dug through the cabinet. The voice that answered was female, a little wary as she said, "Briarcliff Animal Clinic."

  
"Uh, hi," Sam cleared his throat and grabbed a box of Earl Grey. "This is– a friend of Crowley's."

  
"A friend," she echoed skeptically.

  
"Yes," he affirmed, almost defiantly. "I'm his friend, and he's really upset, and I think I can guess what happened but…" He sighed and set a mug onto the counter. "Esca, right?"

  
She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again she sounded genuinely contrite. "Yeah. He didn't make it. After the surgery we thought he might pull through, but… well, he was a very old dog. Trauma was just too much."

  
Sam found a teakettle, filled it with filtered water from the sink and placed it over a burner on the stove. "I see."

  
"He's really broken up about it, huh?" She asked curiously.

  
Sam glanced into the living room to see Crowley curled in on himself, ducked back into the kitchen. "He's basically catatonic."

  
"Jeez."

  
He dropped a teabag into the mug, filled it with water, and started searching for honey. "I'm not really sure what to do. I'm– I'm making some tea for him right now, but I have no idea what else I can…"

  
"He likes his tea with as much sugar or honey as you can possibly get into it without it turning into a crystalized solid. Other than that, go figure, I'm just a vet." There was a shrug in her voice. "But look, bad rep or no, he really loved that dog. If you're his friend, I guess just– be there? I dunno."

  
"Yeah. Okay." He found a jar of Provence lavender honey (with the comb still floating, suspended in the thick amber liquid) and scooped about half of it into the tea, stirring. "Thanks. Sorry to, uh, involve you."

  
"Eh, whatever. Nothing happening here right now anyway. Good luck."

  
    He hung up and stepped back out. Crowley hadn't moved, and Sam very carefully put the mug onto a coaster on the table before settling onto the couch. "Hey." He touched the man's shoulder again, and Crowley's head rose, his expression blank. Sam gestured with his other hand. "I made tea," he offered weakly.

  
    Crowley took the mug in both hands, sniffed it once before taking a sip. They were both silent as he drank, steadily gulping the tea down. When he'd drained the mug, he set it back onto the coaster.

  
"Not enough honey," he commented, exhaustion filling his voice.

  
"Okay," Sam acknowledged, a little nervously.

  
Crowley stared at the mug, hands in his lap. "They killed my dog," he said at last, and Sam nodded.

  
"I know," he said, wondering whether he could ask who 'they' were.

  
    When he looked up, he was almost shocked to see that the other man's eyes were red and bright with building tears. Crowley's hands had curled in on themselves, knuckles white and nails biting into his palms, and he flinched when Sam reached out to slowly wrap an arm around him and draw him into a hug. Sam rested his chin atop Crowley's head, hand making little half-movements over his back and ignoring the way his shoulders jerked and trembled. Eventually the stifled sobs died down to quivering breaths, the occasional hiccup, and then silence. When Sam angled his head to look down, he saw that Crowley was asleep, cheek pressed to Sam's chest and eyes shut. Sam shifted a little, easing into a more comfortable position as carefully as possible, and closed his own eyes.  
  
  



End file.
